Kingdom of Wistanorcclanda

“Our grandfathers and great grandfathers didn't travel all the way from their native land and sign contracts in good faith, only to have their House's lands and subjects swindled from us!” shouted a stocky orcish elder in mail and a bright orange cape, standing atop a shield lifted by younger warriors.

“Hear hear!” The crowd assembled before him lifted their weapons. They were armed and armored eclectically and archaically, but not cheaply. Fine bows, painstakingly refurbished antique swords, and ancestral shields mixed with muskets and pistols in a small sea of steel glimmering softly under the partially-clouded sun.

“House Boarsplitter has gorged itself on others' rightful lands and privileges for too long! If our new Chief wants a coronation, she will answer to us first! And to her own soldiers too, whose grievances are much like our own, to being used as Boarsplitter tools without their due rights: They will meet us and join us along the march! No redress for us? Then no succession for her!”

“No redress?! No succession! No redress?! No succession!”

The chant continued, soon joined by a cacophany of clanking metal. So began the march to Cournoy.


___

For all the gaudiness of their attire and ceremony – the ascendant Boarsplitter's elaborate ceremonial breastplate and thick silver-embroidered purple mantle and golden crown, the Chief Priest reciting rites of investiture like she was crowning a Southern monarch- Elder Ogut Wargfeller took comfort in that which remained according to tradition. The banners of every Stonefoot House hung from the walls of the Longhall, whose structure remained much the same as when it was built no matter how many decorations filled it. Whatever prestige and authority they had lost over the last century, it was only the House Elders and their retinues -apart from the clergy and fellow Orcish Chiefs- who would partake in the ceremony and the feast that followed. No Waepenbora with Wastelander names or promoted burghers would serve a role. Musicians, bards, guards, and even servants were all proper House retainers.

“The titles are coming soon, Agerta” Ogut warmly informed the orcish child at his feet – his great-neice – with a pat on the head from his gauntlet. Acca had stepped down from her raised platform and was now flanked by the Elders, who one-by-one shouted “Aye!” and raised an ancestral sword in support of her succession. Ogut joined in turn, though Agerta had to help his feeble arms lift the weapon. He chuckled as the child seemed to take on nearly the entire weight of the weapon without so much as a grunt. As the series of ayes moved on, he looked down to Agerta. “You'll make a fine shield-maiden one day. Perhaps you will join the ranks of our new Chief's retainers.”

“She's not Chief yet,” the child quipped quietly. She was still impatient for the Chief Priest to get to the titles already.

“Well then you best turn your head back to her, or you'll miss it.” Indeed, as the joyful melodies of lutes and horns subsided, the final words of investiture were beginning.

“Nú! Wid se Héahusu in gecéosaning aedwas ond wid Aed scéawung uppan ús, yfel hringan éower ...”

Behold! With the Great Houses as approving witnesses and with Aed looking upon us, I crown you...


___


“The soldiers are peeling off!”

“The retainers are leaving!”

“Elder Horik, what do we do?!”

After hours of hard but jovial marching alongside the dissident soldiers, suddenly Horik Battlesinger was hearing shouts all around. He stood atop the shield carrying him to get a better view. What in Aed's name...?.

The banners of the Stonefoot Army deserters were indeed peeling off, distancing themselves from him at a curve, heading into the fields and ditches on either side of the large cobbled road.

“Only a mile from the city, and they lose their nerve now?” shouted one of Horik's retainers in angrily, throwing up his arms in disbelief. The commanding Elder was about to reply when a great commotion broke his concentration.

“AHEAD! CANNONS!” Cries of anger and confusion began to rise from the front of the procession, but the Elder couldn't quite see past a lemon grove some hundred yards ahead, where the road curved to the left.

Then came the thunderous clang of artillery, and the cries turned to pain and fear. Horik felt a shiver in his spine. He saw clouds of smoke begin to rise from behind the trees, and he thought he could smell blood. Grapeshot. Only then did he think to look again to his sides, where he saw his Army “allies” turning about to face his column.

“TRAITORS!” Horik bellowed, before quickly turning his head to face his immediate subordinates near below him. “Quickly! Get our warriors to face - ”

A ripple of fire, smoke, and piercing cracks from either side of the road drowned out the Battlesinger Elder's voice. The smell of blood and powder grew thicker. Then another volley, and another...they were firing in ranks. On the fourth, Horik felt his legs twist and fumble as two of his shield-bearers crumpled below him. A hand from a loyal warrior ensured he wasn't down long, but he knew the battle was already lost.

“THE ONLY WAY OUT IS BACK! RETREAT!” Bitter words to swallow, let alone to shout at the top of his lungs. But there was no other way. Dragged atop the horse of one of his guards, Elder Horik Battlesinger watched his proud force begin to melt around him.


___


“...Bonde fram Hus Eoforsplatere”

Head of House Boarsplitter. The oldest title Acca would be inheriting, one which none could contest even in theory.

“...Agendfrea fram Burg fram Cwrny”

Master of the City of Cournoy. The first landed title of House Boarsplitter, at least as far as any bard or known historical record could show. Of course, by now, the title implied control not only over the Stonefoot capital, but the keep on the other side of the river and a great many tracts extending far in every direction from each, not to mention the mind-boggling patchwork of Boarsplitter demesne holdings throughout the realm. Had this been Acca's only title, surely she still would have been the most powerful lady in the realm.

“...Fyrdwisa fram Scir Stánfoot”

Chief of Clan Stonefoot. The real title for which this ceremony had been convened. Elder Ogut smiled. Though there had been no question of her accession to the position, Acca deserved the position as far as he was concerned. Her father was a martyr, and she had been proving her mettle fighting beside him. Now it was time – wait, she's not finished?

“...Wearde fram de Feorwistanorcc Scirs”

Warden of the Far Western Orcish Clans? House Wargfeller's elder flinched. A new title? But he quickly composed himself: While he didn't like the business of grabbing land to the West through vassal Wastelanders, at least formalizing the relationship would make the order of things clear. They were lesser clans, subordinate to Stonefoot.T his way Acca would weaken any case such “clans” – each smaller than some Houses – might make for co-equal status in Orcland, should they try to weasel out of their contracts with House Boarsplitter.

But there was more...

“...ond Cwen fram Wistanorcclanda!”

At this, the Elder could not help but choke, mouth and eyes agape. But as he looked to the other, younger Elders, he saw little more than mild confusion from a few, and nods of approval from the others! And then they began to applaud and shout their Ayes once again!

“Great uncle!” he heard Agerta exclaim, barely containing her voice. “Did you hear that? An orcish queen!”


___


The metal may have been cold, but Elder Horik Battlesinger's wrists burned nonetheless. After an hour of being marched as a prisoner, flanked by warg-mounted orcs in breastplates and helmets, he finally arrived at the Waepenbora camp. It would have been one thing to be captured by the disciplined warrior retainers of Clan Stonefoot; defeat against a worthy foe. But to be surrounded by those upstart, traitor Wastelanders, his one path of escape herding his retreating column right into their encirclement...it made his blood boil.

“Into the field, rebel!” shouted an officer as he entered the camp's palisade, pointing to what appeared to be a target practice range, but now occupied by a small assembly of bards on a makeshift dais.

“What do you mean to do to us, scum?”

No jackboot came to kick the Elder's face, nor the butt of a carbine nor the hilt of a sword, but only a laugh. “You are to be judged for your treason.”

“What of my right to judgment before the Chief and the Elder Council? Am I not her vassal and a Clan Elder due to the respect of my post? I demand recourse!”

One of the bards, apparently sharp of hearing, was the one to answer, not only to him but to the whole crowd of prisoners pouring in. “Your contract has been annulled!” he half-shouted, half-sang. “All contracts of your sort have...from the forests of Istbalc to the edges of Docgalanda, only the Crown and the Old Houses shall hold sway, served by their loyal members and the Waepenbora! And to the West, only the Crown and its appointed Clan-Governors, served by the Waepenbora to be formed from the subject clans of which it is Warden.”

By now, the cavalry were dismounting, and they had even cleared space around the Elder. The trial had begun. “By what right does House Boarsplitter disinherit House Battlesinger?!”

“By your violations of the law!”

“And of House Boarsplitter's violations, which provoked my march?!”

“What witnesses shall you call to recount these accusations?”

The Elder's heart sank. He looked to the palisade, then to his surviving comrades -some watching him intently, others still being marched in and yet oblivious to the proceedings-. It was clear they were all already branded; there was no “neutral” or “credible” witness for him to call. Those whom he had counted as allies would testify against him. Not only the soldiers, but surely whatever spies the Boarsplitters had planted among his own army's ranks – How else could they have trapped him so neatly? All those who didn't abandon him would be executed along with him in this very field, after the bards finished their show trial and left the Waepenbora to do the dirty work.

But then he turned back to the bard and steeled his gaze. Among the bards were scribes. They were listening and writing. If Horik and his House were about to be erased, he wouldn't let it happen without leaving a record of the longest, most heated trial he and those still loyal to him could muster.

“I call...”

___


It was Queen Acca's turn to speak for herself, now.

“In the name of Aed, I accept the responsibilities due my titles, which I will executed with Duty, Dignity, and Mastery!” She gave a reserved but genuine smile, first to the Elders and then to her fellow Chiefs. The former seemed receptive, except for the old and ever-clueless Elder Ugot, and even he didn't muster any words of objection. This little more than the formal confirmation of a reality that had been developing over generations, that House Boarsplitter and Clan Stonefoot were one and the same, and that other Houses and vassal Clans served them not as lesser equals but as subjects. Even their highest ranks were mere landlords, bureaucrats, and soldiers in a single system, where it was no longer common practice to tax orcs separately by membership, nor for bards or warriors to serve their House or Clan above those that ruled the land.

But for the latter, the other Chiefs or Orcland, it would be another matter. Especially for High Chief Artog – Acca knew she would have some explaining to do in his eyes. But for the moment, in this hall, he could not object.

“Now, let the feast begin!” she continued, with less serenity and more joviality.

After moving down the hall to the head of the table and leaving time for all her important guests to move from the raised seats on the edge of the hall to the dining seats in the center, Acca closed the ceremonies as the Boarsplitters had for centuries. With her House's ancestral carving knife – Folctruma, she fulfilled her namesake by cutting open a fine roasted boar. What better way to confirm a new age than with an old tradition?